LIBRARY OF CONGRESS, 
©i^aju ©Diujrig:^! !|n. 

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



J 



POEMS 



BY /^ 

CAROLINE DUER 



AND 



ALICE 'bUER 




NEW YORK ^ 

GEORGE H. RICHMOND & CO. 

1896 



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Copyright, 1896, by 
GEORGE H. RICHMOND & CO. 



Press of J. J. Little & Co. 
Astor Place, New York 



CONTENTS 



I. 


An International Episode 


PAGE 
5 


2. 


A Song . . . . , 


9 


3- 


A Portrait .... 


10 


4. 


A Serenade . . . . . 


12 


5. 


How Can One Tell? . 


. 13 


6. 


A Sonnet . . . . . 


15 


7. 


A Midsummer Night's Dream . 


. 16 


8. 


To Leeward . . . . . 


18 


9- 


An Exhortation to Gentleness 


20 


10. 


Lines for the Skull at the Feast 


21 


II. 


The Image of the Earthy 


22 


12. 


Count Me Not Less . 


24 


13. 


An Apology .... 


. 25 


14. 


Overheard in a Conservatory . 


27 


15. 


To A Photograph 


31 


16. 


The Yellow Age . . . . 


33 


17. 


From the German 


35 


18. 


The Broken Wheel 


36 



CONTENTS, 



PAGE 

19. After a Year . . . . .38 

20. A Passing Fancy .... 40 

21. To THE Night-Breeze . . . .41 

22. A Dialogue ..... 42 

23. A Vignette . . . . .45 

24. Good-Night ..... 46 

25. A Song . . . . . . 47 

26. The Kingdom of the Present . . 48 

27. From Phyllis . . . . .49 

28. How Like a Woman ... 50 

29. A Drinking-Song . . . .52 

30. My Rose of May .... 53 

31. A Word to the Wise . . . -55 

32. The Snare of the Fowler . . 56 

33. "Once I Went." (After Walt Whitman.) . 58 

34. Triolet. (After Austin Dobson.) . . 60 

35. Wasted Time . . . . • ^i 



POEMS. 

AN INTERNATIONAL EPISODE. 

March 15, 1889. 

We were ordered to Samoa from the coast of Pa- 
nama, 
And for two long months we sailed the unequal 
sea, 
Till we made the horseshoe harbor with its curv- 
ing coral bar. 
Smelt the good green smell of grass and shrub 
and tree. 
We had barely room for swinging with the tide — 

There were many of us crowded in the bay : 
Three Germans, and the English ship, beside 

Our three — and from the Trenton^ where she lay, 
Through the sunset calms and after. 
We could hear the shrill, sweet laughter 

Of the children's voices on the shore at play. 



POEMS. 



We all knew a storm was coming, but, dear God ! 
no man could dream 
Of the furious hell-horrors of that day : 
Through the roar of winds and waters we could 
hear wild voices scream — 
See the rocking masts reel by us through the 
spray. 
In the gale we drove and drifted helplessly, 

With our rudder gone, our engine-fires drowned, 
And none might hope another hour to see ; 

For all the air was desperate with the sound 
Of the brave ships rent asunder — 
Of the shrieking souls sucked under, 

'Neath the waves, where many a good man's 
grave was found. 

About noon, upon our quarter, from the deeper 
gloom afar 
Came the English man-of-war Calliope : 
" We have lost our anchors, comrades, and, though 
small the chances are, 
We must steer for safety and the open sea." 



POEMS. 7 

Then we climbed aloft to cheer her as she passed 
Through the tempest and the blackness and the 
foam : 
" Now, God speed you, though the shout should be 
our last, 
Through the channel where the maddened break- 
ers comb, 
Through the wild sea's hill and hollow, 
On the path we cannot follow, 

To your women and your children and your 
home." 

Oh ! remember it, good brothers. We two people 
speak one tongue. 
And your native land was mother to our land ; 
But the head, perhaps, is hasty when the nation's 
heart is young, 
And we prate of things we do not understand. 
But the day when we stood face to face with 
death, 
(Upon whose face few men may look and 
tell), 



POEMS. 



As long as you could hear, or we had breath, 
Four hundred voices cheered you out of hell. 

By the will of that stern chorus. 

By the motherland which bore us, 
Judge if we do not love each other well. 

c. D. 



POEMS. 



A SONG. 

Dearest dear, if thou wouldst measure 

What to me is measureless, 
Half the pain or half the pleasure 

Of my love's great tenderness, 
I will touch my heart-strings for thee, 

Since to thee it doth belong, 
And the echo shall adore thee 

In a song within a song. 

As the sun is to the flowers, 

As the stars to midnight skies, 
As the rainbow to the showers, 

As the light to sightless eyes, 
As the flame is to the fire, 

As the breeze is to the sea, 
As the gain to the desire, 

So, dear heart, art thou to me. 

C. D. 



lo POEMS. 



A PORTRAIT. 

A MAN more kindly, in his careless way, 
Than many who profess a higher creed ; 

Whose fickle love might change from day to day, 
And yet be faithful to a friend in need ; 

Whose manners covered, through life's outs and ins, 

Like charity, a multitude of sins. 

A man of honor, too, as such things go ; 

Discreet and secret — qualities of use — 
Selfish, but not self-conscious, generous, slow 

To anger, but most ready in excuse. 
His wit and cleverness consisted not 
So much in what he said as what he got. 

His principles one might not quite commend. 
And they were much too simple to mistake : 

Never to turn his back upon a friend. 
Never to lie, but for a woman's sake, 

To take the sweets that came within his way. 

And pay the price if there were price to pay. 



POEMS. II 



Idle, good-looking, negatively wise, 
Lazy in action, plausible in speech ; 

Favor he found in many women's eyes, 

And valued most that which was hard to reach. 

Few are both true and tender, and he grew, 

In time, a little tenderer than true. 

Knowing much evil, half-regretting good. 
As we regret a childish impulse — lost. 

Wearied with knowledge best not understood. 
Bored with the disenchantment that it cost ; 

But, in conclusion, with no failings hid : 

A gentleman, no matter what he did. 

C. D. 



12 POEMS. 



A SERENADE. 

Heard you the rustle and sweep of the rushes ? 

That was my boat at the mouth of the creek. 
Heard you my step through the solemn night 
hushes ? 

Knew you the words that my spirit would speak ? 
Saw you a light where the skies kiss the billow ? 

That was love's star, rising over the sea. 
Wake, then, beloved, and turn from your pillow, 

Loving and longing and dreaming of me. 

c. D. 



POEMS. 13 



HOW CAN ONE TELL? 

Who would believe that under sunny skies, 

A month ago, when summer kissed the land, 
We read sweet stories in each other's eyes, 

And laughed and loved and would not under- 
stand 
That Time, who changes all things as he flies, 
Bids us change too, in order to be wise — 

Who would believe ? 



Well, being wise, we part without regret, 

Frank with ourselves and fickle with our times ; 

But, though we part, we need not quite forget. 
In winter prose, the ring of summer rhymes. 

Fate cannot change the fact that once we met : 

We may remember that, at least — and yet 

Be not unwise. 



14 POEMS. 



How can one tell which way one's heart will yearn, 
Back to the old, or forward to the new ? 

When one is young, one has so much to learn, 
And life is long and all the tales are true ; 

And, peradventure, we may both return 

To warm our hands where once we feared to burn — 

How can one tell ? 

C. D. 



POEMS. 15 



A SONNET. 

Dear, if you love me, hold me most your friend, 
Chosen from out the many who would bear 
Your gladness gladly — heavily your care ; 
Who best can sympathize, best comprehend, 
Where others fail ; who, breathless to the end, 
Follows your tale of joy or of despair : 
Hold me your counsellor, because I dare 
To lift my hand to guide you, that I lend 
My love to help you. And I would you knew 
That I am fair enough to win men's hearts, 
If so I willed ; yet honor me above 
All other women, since I am too true 
To trap you with my sex's smaller arts. 
Deem me all these, but love me as your love. 

A. D. 



i6 POEMS, 



A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM. 

When the summer moon in her midnight madness 
Breaks through the clouds that would veil the 
night, 
And the earth and air are full filled of gladness, 

And the heart of man of a vague delight ; 
When the wild sea-breeze to the land comes sob- 
bing, 
And the wild sea-waves clap their hands and 
sing, 
Then wake, mad hearts, to your passionate throb- 
bing, 
For this is the hour when Love is king. 

Sing, too, O ye stars, in the arch of heaven — 
The silence of night doth madden the brain. 

And the crash of waves is too low and too even, 
Like some sad sweet chord struck again and 
aeain. 



POEMS. 17 

Riot, O wind, in the meadow's green tresses, 
Ripple the pools with the rush of your wing, 

Wake the white land with your wanton caresses, 
For this is the hour when Love is king. 

Wilt thou come through mist and cloudland of 
dreaming. 
Spirit I love, on the wings of sleep — 
Through the night's dark space, through the moon's 
white beaming. 
As the spark floats down from the meteor's 
sweep ? 
For we are apart, but our souls' desire 
Like fire to fire shall leap and cling ; 
And the flame of thought, by the wind fanned 
higher. 
Burns through the hour when Love is king. 

C. D. 



i8 POEMS. 



TO LEEWARD. 

Let the boat drift, my lady and my love, 
Thou in the stern, I lying at thy feet ; 

Bend down the eyes my heart was dreaming of 
Before God put it in my breast to beat. 

Look, where the river opens to the sea, 

Twilight is stealing onward lingeringly, 

Between the world and our felicity. 



Sing to me, dear — my soul was buried deep 
Through all our time of parting and of pain — 

Sing, and the fire of youth and life shall leap 
From my wild heart into my veins again. 

Rise, evening breeze, and drive the boat on fast ; 

Fall, evening mist, and hide us from the past — 

We take our fate into our hands at last. 



POEMS, 19 



Close in the girdle of my arms entwined, 
Rest on my lips the softness of thy cheek. 

If Fate were sightless, must we too be blind, 
And let our happiness slip by us ? Speak ! 

Over the restless sea and quiet land 

Silence and darkness creep up, hand in hand. 

Answer again ! I dare not understand. 

c. D. 



20 POEMS. 



AN EXHORTATION TO GENTLENESS. 

You who are strong, and do not know the need 
That weaker spirits feel, but do not plead — 

The need to lean on someone who is strong — 
Oh ! see you give their silent want good heed. 

Be not so busy with your own career, 
However noble, that you cannot hear 

The sighs of those who look to you for help, 
For this is purchasing success too dear. 

Many strong men and good, I see, so bent 
Upon their own souls' high development 
That they have only scorn or tolerance 
To give to those who are not thus intent. 

Yet, who can answer that it is not true 
That those weak souls who spare, where blame is 
due. 
And smile, because too gentle to be stern, 
Are not more needed in the world than you ? 

A. D. 



POEMS. 21 



LINES FOR THE SKULL AT THE FEAST. 

Drink and forget to reason : 
Man's life is but a season, 
And pleasure's lips are breathless, ere youth is 
past its prime. 
The rose-red love shall linger 
Till care has touched its finger, 
But only death is deathless, along the road of time. 

c. D. 



22 POEMS. 



THE IMAGE OF THE EARTHY. 

Sleep, tired eyes. Your tender flame is fled, 

As on dim hills the watch-fires had burnt low ; 
You, who have speculated, wondered, read. 
Viewed the hereafter with a passionate dread, 
When next those white lids open, you will know. 

Sleep, weary brain. Life is a stormy sky, 

And we, like restless birds, tossed to and fro, 
Imperfect atoms of the eternal " why," 
Circling and drifting onward aimlessly. 
Not knowing whence we come, nor where we go. 

Sleep, wayward heart. If love were sinful, dear, 
Knowing its price, would we not pay the whole, 
And count the winning of a life's love here, 
The wild reality of hearts brought near,, 
Well worth the losing of a phantom soul ? 



POEMS. 23 



Sleep without fear — death turns all wrong to right. 

I wonder, shall we meet, dear, when I die. 
Those who believe in heaven say " good-night " ; 
But I, in losing all my blind soul's light. 

Standing in hopeless darkness, say "good-by." 

Good-by, dear heart, repentance comes too late ; 

But if there be a heaven beyond the sky. 
And you should chance to find the golden gate, 
By all our happy past, I pray you, wait. 

Lest my lost, lonely spirit pass it by. 

c. D. 



24 POEMS. 



Count me not less thy friend because my hearty 
Blinded a moment by the light of youth, 
Leaped toward thee ere it took thine estimate, 
And knew no leap might carry it so high 
As where thy heart beats lonely. Count me not 
The less thy friend in that I love thee, dear. 

c. D. 



POEMS. 25 



AN APOLOGY. 

Some wayward tide in memory's sea 

Has borne my thoughts back to the turning 
When Fate first taught to you, through me, 

A lesson hardly worth the learning ; 
Showed you that changeful looks could prove 

Fit emblem of the heart they cover ; 
Showed you, alas ! the more we love. 

The less the loved is worth the lover. 



And though the story now is old. 

Your loyalty would still forbid you 
To show me that your thoughts could hold 

One token of the wrong I did you. 
And yet, my dear, within your heart 

Some faint resentment must have tarried ; 
Though Fate had used a worthless dart, 

The wound was none the easier carried. 



26 POEMS, 



Forgive me, many days there are 

Since then. — Do those a whole life leaven ? 
And you and I have drifted far, 

Though not, perhaps, much nearer heaven. 
Forgive me, dearest, not because 

Years certain suffering have brought me — 
Not for the sake of what I was — 

But for the sake of what you thought me. 

c. D. 



POEMS. 27 



OVERHEARD IN A CONSERVATORY. 

He {after a pause) : 

Dear, are you angry ? 
She : 

Yes, though not at you, 
But at myself. Of course, we know it's true 
That when a man respects a girl . . 
He {interrupting) : 

I thought 
You'd say that. It's the nonsense girls are 

taught. 
You know, as well as I do, I revere 
You more than any other woman, dear. 
She {indignantly) : 

You'd not have done it to Elfrida Hood. 
He: 

Immortal gods ! I shouldn't think I would. 
She {haughtily) : 
If this but seems to you fit food for jest 
I say no more. Silence were plainly best. 



28 POEMS, 



He {very seriously) : 

Dear, if I jest, it is because I read 
The hopelessness of aught that I could plead 
In your stern eyes, which righteous wrath be- 
tray. 
Were you another woman, I should say 
That you were fair, and I, it seems, was mad, 
But that the last long waltz that we had had 
Might very well have turned a wiser head. 
A hundred things like this I might have said 
To women who would take them as excuse. 
You think none possible — so what's the use ? 

She: 

Then why discuss it further ? Let us go. 

He: 

One minute ! I should like you first to know 
I did not think that this would be the end 
When, two weeks since, you said you'd be my 
friend. 

She [reflectively^ : 
Only two weeks. 



POEMS. 29 



He: 

Not long, 'tis true, and yet, 

You've stopped my doing much I should re- 
gret. 
Nor should I murmur that you teach how far 
More hard than others all good women are. 

She {emphatically) : 

That is not true, indeed it is not true. 
Some men I could forgive this, but not you. 
You would go home, and smile, and think I 

meant — 
I viewed it merely as a . . . 

He {politely) : 

Precedent ! 

Was that the word ? Indeed, in this respect 

You wrong, to say the least, my intellect. 

If you forgave me, I should understand 

Just what it meant . . . 

She {hastily) : 

Oh, please let go my hand ! 

Here is papa, who comes, I know, to say 

That it is late, and time to go away. 



30 POEMS. 



He: 
I do not care a bit how late it is, 
I only know we cannot part like this. 
Show me, at least, you do not doubt my sorrow. 

She (hesitatingly") : 
Well — come as usual at five to-morrow. 

A. D. 



POEMS, 31 



TO A PHOTOGRAPH. 

Your stern young face looks out to-night, 

From — most incongruous of places — 
My toilet-table's rose and white, 

Half-hidden by its frills and laces : 
Set with no gold nor precious stone. 

But thrust into my mirror's moulding. 
That the same scroll that frames my own 

Should have yours, too, within its holding. 

Absurd that I consult your eyes, 

Half in excuse, half in defiance. 
Lest some of my frivolities 

Should break our fanciful alliance ; 
Absurd indeed, that I should care 

For your boy scorn or disapproval. 
When the same hand that placed you there 

Has but to rise for your removal. 



32 POEMS. 



Yet if I took you from your place, 

Each night my weary eyes would miss you ; 
And so, dear, stay : perhaps your face 

Will look less stern each time I kiss you. 

C. D. 



POEMS. 33 



THE YELLOW AGE. 

This is the age of grasping hands and hearts, 
Of hurrying feet and greedy, watchful eyes 

Turned to the worship of the Golden Calf, 
Sneering down other idols with a laugh, 

Throwing down other prizes for this prize ; 
Bowing before the priest who understands 
Its myst'ries best in this and other lands. 



These are the glittering days of gilded show, 
Of brazen tongues — of envy, jaundice-eyed 

And covetous of all that gold controls : 
This is the age of brains instead of souls — 

The yellow age, where purses measure pride. 
Even the flame of love, blown to and fro 
By jealous winds, burns with a saffron glow. 



34 POEMS. 



Look well, O world, before Time turns the page, 

The gaudy pageant passes through your street ; 
The envious apes rage in your market place — 

Science and art are breathless in the race 
For fortune, where for fame they did compete. 

The yellow fever of the yellow age 

Has spread from slave to king, from fool to sage. 

C. D. 



POEMS. 35 



FROM THE GERMAN. 

Once for thy brow a wreath I wished to wind, 
And, seeking long, I could no flowers find. 
Now golden flowers are blooming far and near, 
But, ah ! dear love, thou art no longer here. 

A. D. 



36 POEMS. 



THE BROKEN WHEEL. 

Patience, poor heart ! To-night thou shalt have 
rest — 

Rest, that I buy thee at the price of Hfe. 
Let those with strength and courage stand the test, 

Here will I end the strife. 

Time's haggard eyes hold many tears like me, 
Not worth God's smile in life — much less his 
frown — 

If, by its weight of wretchedness set free, 
One heavy tear drop down. 

Call you it sin, O seekers after Truth — 
Sin, that I enter at Death's open door ? 

So be it. I was worthless from my youth : 
What matters one sin more ? 

But if my faults were great, my hopes were few : 
Who can do battle with a breaking heart ? 

I have deserted from the ranks, and you 
Will take no rebel's part. 



POEMS. yi 



I have made way for other fools to prate, 
For other eyes to seek for what is not, 

For other hearts to fight against their fate, 
While youth's wild blood is hot, 

I but return to God life's borrowed spark 
(Doubtless there is a God in Israel) ; 

My eyes are tired, and Death's halls are dark : 
May I sleep long and well. 

C. D. 



38 POEMS, 



AFTER A YEAR. 

Yes, you have guessed it. Do not blame me, dear. 

Indeed, I did not dream, O tender eyes. 
When first we met, that in a little year 

My words would dim you with pain's dumb sur- 
prise. 

Do not reproach me, for I suffer too — 
An agony of shame and self-contempt ; 

And know that I shall miss, far more than you, 
The lost illusions of this dream we've dreamt. 

Why did you ever learn to love me, child ? 

If you had let me only be your friend — 
Instead of weeping, had you only smiled 

Coldly, I might have worshipped to the end. 

Worthless and aimless, what I was you knew, 
By all the wretched past to you confessed ; 

The one good in me was my love of you. 
And that has proved as fickle as the rest. 



POEMS. 39 



Ah ! dear, the worst wrong in this world of shame, 
The hardest question to explain, is why 

Women like you, who barely know sin's name, 
Can be so wounded by such men as I. 

A. D. 



40 POEMS. 



A PASSING FANCY. 

I CAME from my box at the play, last night, 

As a face in the crowd flashed past : 
Time was when those eyes were my eyes' best light, 

And my heart at that name beat fast. 
And yet, when we met in the hurrying stream, 

I sighed not as much of a sigh 
As if it had been but the part of a dream 

I had dreamed in the days gone by. 

Though we die with our hand in the hand we love, 

We may wake to its touch estranged. 
If the love that we loved so indifferent prove. 

May not love we love now be changed ? 
And our souls in some heaven may pass and sigh, 

Half-ashamed of the life they knew : 
** Ah ! how fond beat the heart of what once was I, 

For the sake of what once was you." 

C. D. 



POEMS. 41 



TO THE NIGHT-BREEZE. 

Breeze of the night, across my pillow straying — 
Breeze of the night, of summer dews begot, 

Salt from the sea-shore, where the waves are play- 
ing, 

Slow, to and fro, my window curtains swaying — 
Cool my flushed cheeks, by recent sleep left hot. 

A. D. 



42 POEMS. 



A DIALOGUE. 

He. 

I AM in trouble, give me your advice. 

She. 
No, for I'm sure 'twould not be carried out. 

He. 

It shall, I swear it shall, at any price. 

She. 
If that's agreed, what is this all about ? 

He. 
How can I win a woman who is fair 

And cold ? 

She. 

Be colder. 

He. 

But she's proud as well. 

She. 
Be prouder. 



POEMS. 43 



He. 
But she does not seem to care, 
Nor notice when I'm near. 

She. 

How can you tell 
Whether she does or not, until you've tried 
Not being near ? Avoid her, let her see 
The change, and, should chance place you at her 
side, 
Be colder, prouder, civiler than she. 

He. 
But if she cares . . . 

She. 

Then it will break her heart, 
Which will be easier won. 

He. 

'Tis too severe 
On me : I could not. 

She. 

Then you'd better part. 
He. 
Is this your counsel ? Well, good-by, my dear. 



44 POEMS. 



She. 
Stay, there's one thing to do before you go. 

He. 
What? 

She. 
If you really love her, tell her so. 
Perhaps you'll find her kinder than you know. 

A. D. 



POEMS. 45 



A VIGNETTE. 

Cupid, playing blind-man's buff, 
Seized my Psyche's floating tresses. 

*' Here is silken clue enough 
To dispense with any guesses. 

This is Psyche's golden fleece : 

She's my prisoner, past release." 
But the lookers-on declare 
Love was caught in Psyche's hair. 

c. D. 



46 POEMS. 



GOOD-NIGHT. 

Dearest, good-night ! The darkness spreads her 

wings 
Over the restlessness of human things, 
And stills awhile the tumult of the day. 

We were together not two hours ago, 
Playing our parts before the world's great show, 
Saying the words set down for us to say. 

Yet are we nearer now than we have been. 
Though the long streets lie silently between, 
Though all the world should stretch between us 
two. 

Think of me, dearest, not as I was then — 
That was a worldly woman among men : 
This is a lonely woman who loves you. 

c. D. 



POEMS. 47 



A SONG. 

If I were only a ray of the sun, 

How I would steal through your lattice at morn, 
Touch all the things you had touched, one by one. 

Sparkle and dance on the gems you had worn, 
Trembling and hoping to see in the glass, 
Trace of my light in your face as you pass. 

If I were only a breeze of the night, 

How I would sigh of my love and despair, 

Kiss your soft cheek, or your lips, if I might. 
Chase the white moonbeams that lie in your hair, 

Hushing the nightingale, for while he sings 

You might be deaf to my whispering wings. 

If I were only a wave of the sea. 

Born like a sigh from the breast of the deep, 
Knowing the end of my journey to be 

Death, when life's gift were most worthy to keep, 
Yet would I laugh while my broken heart beat : 
Death were life's crown if I died at your feet. 

c. D. 



48 POEMS. 



THE KINGDOM OF THE PRESENT. 

Live for to-day, that sows and shall not reap ; 

Live for to-day, that reaps and has not sown ; 
Raise to thy lips the cup of life, drink deep : 
Bordered and bounded by the sea of sleep, 

The kingdom of the present is thine own. 

Through yesterday, perhaps, sad echoes rise 

From shadowy pasts — hold, then, to-day more 
dear. 
Rest and content thee in its sunny skies. 
And to the future look with passionless eyes, 
That are below all hope, above all fear. 

To-day I reign a Queen and thou a King — 

To-morrow, food for worms ! but now no worse 
Because Time slips us off his golden ring, 
Because to-morrow Death may break the string 
That binds the unit to the universe. 

c. D. 



POEMS. 49 



FROM PHYLLIS. 

Dearest, I read the books you sent, because 
You sent them — but they're far too grave for me. 

I like not serious stories, nor wise saws, 
Chilling my youth with fear of ills to be. 

But be not angry, since at your request 

I read them all, and found the love-tale best. 

Yet that was sad, too, and one sentence there 
Tried and tormented me — that's why I write. 

You've read the book. Do you remember where 
The hero was made prisoner in the fight ? 

The heroine, to save her lover's life, 

Renounced him and became his rival's wife. 

And he reproached her : " Were I in your place 

My life without you had been little worth." 
"I'd live," she said, "through pain and through 
disgrace 
To know you lived, though dead to me on 
earth." 
Dearest, this troubled me, because, you see, 
I'd rather die than have you dead to me. c. d. 



50 POEMS. 



HOW LIKE A WOMAN. 

I WANTED you to comc to-day — 

Or so I told you in my letter — 
And yet, if you had stayed away, 

I should have liked you so much better. 
I should have sipped my tea unseen, 

And thrilled at every door-bell's pealing, 
And thought how nice I could have been 

Had you evinced a little feeling. 

I should have guessed you drinking tea 

With someone whom you loved to madness ; 
I should have thought you cold to me. 

And revelled in a depth of sadness. 
But, no ! you came without delay — 

I could not feel myself neglected : 
You said the things you always say. 

In ways not wholly unexpected. 



POEMS. 51 



If you had let me wait in vain, 

We should, in my imagination, 
Have held, what we did not attain, 

A most dramatic conversation. 
Had you not come, I should have known 

At least a vague anticipation. 
Instead of which, I grieve to own, 

You did not give me one sensation. 

A. D. 



52 POEMS. 



A DRINKING-SONG. 

Drink, from the flowing measure, 

Health to the God of the golden Wine ; 

Taste of the cup of pleasure 
Freely, while youth is thine. 
Thy weary brain from the dry champagne 

A merrier mood should borrow : 

The wise are sad, but the fools are gay, 
And the rose that we plucked but yesterday 

Will be faded and dead by to-morrow. 

Drink, for the hours are flying ; 

Youth is fleeting, but age is slow : 
Sorrows for which thou'rt sighing 

Melt from thy sight like snow. 
Thy weary brain from the dry champagne 
A merrier mood should borrow : 

The wise are sad, but the fools are gay, 

And the life that we lived but yesterday 
Is the death that we die to-morrow. 

C. D. 



POEMS. 53 



MY ROSE OF MAY. 

The sunlight lingers on the hill, 

For love of you, my rose of May ; 
I've lingered here, against my will, 

For that same reason, many a day. 
" The sun comes back to-morrow ! " True ! 

By then I shall be far away. 
Perhaps he's nothing else to do ; 

I own I have, my rose of May. 

In old days women ruled the world. 

And men knew how to wait, they say ; 
Eut love-locks now have come uncurled 

And chivalry has passed away. 
Man has found out he has a will : 

If too exacting prove your sway. 
Why, Jack will find another Jill, 

Less hard to please, my rose of May. 



54 POEMS. 



Next time Love finds your garden gate, 

Ah ! lift the latch, my rose of May ; 
Don't leave him there to watch and wait — 

Believe me, dear, it doesn't pay. 
When chance, like a resistless tide, 

Sweeps opportunities your way, 
Ah ! take the goods the gods provide, 

When they provide them, rose of May. 

C. D. 



POEMS. 55 



A WORD TO THE WISE. 

If wisdom's height is only disenchantment, 
As say the cynics of a certain school, 

And sages grow more sad in their advancement, 
Then folly is the wisdom of the fool. 

Since fools know happiness through lack of knowl- 
edge. 

And see things fair because they shut their eyes, 
Then anyone can tell, who's been to college, 

That wisdom is the folly of the wise. 

C. D. 



56 POEMS. 



THE SNARE OF THE FOWLER. 

" Some Cupid kills with arrows, some with traps." 

I WRITE for those, of whom I know a few, 
Young, pretty, and a little bit flirtatious. 

Who would do even more harm, if they knew 
The science of the Art of being Gracious. 

Science in any game, we know, will tell, 

And those who play this ought to play it well. 

First, do not doubt that rivals please a man 
(Not too successful ones, 'tis understood) — 

They flatter him as nothing you do can. 
And give him certainty his taste is good ; 

And though, at times, a little in his way, 

They make him find the house he haunts more gay. 

Do not abuse the girls he likes — 'tis far 

From wise — for he will only think you spiteful ; 

Praise them, and show how ludicrous they are, 
And, ten to one, he'll find the joke delightful. 

From which I draw this never-failing rule : 

Love lives through slander but not ridicule. 



POEMS. 57 



Do not appear incredulous of vows, 
As is the way of self -distrusting youth ; 

A little doubt civility allows, 

But not too long should you impugn their truth. 

In short, if you would give true satisfaction. 

Express belief in words, and doubt in action. 

Should the day come when he is not the same. 
Do not reproach and treat him like a sinner — 

The fault is yours. Find out the lady's name. 
And be a friend, and ask them both to dinner ; 

And, I have heard, the game not always ends 

When two old lovers change to two good friends. 

A. D. 



58 POEMS. 



"ONCE I WENT." 

Once I went to Long Island City, prepared to 
take the train for Jamaica, Babylon, Islip, 
Oakdale, Bayport, Patchogue, Moriches, and 
the Hamptons. 

I had with me all things which could combine to 
conduce to my comfort. These are the things 
I never forget. 

Soon I sought out the parlor-car porter — ebon- 
visaged, gold-capped : 

" O official of the Long Island Railroad, O man, 
O black brother, the best seat for me, and 
there, take my bag, umbrella, hot-water tin, 
overcoat, and goloshes." 

That one flew, flat-footed. I followed. The 
crowds observed me. 
I entered the car, and selected someone else's 
place by the window. 



POEMS. 



59 



Assured of my comfort, shortly the train started. 

Oh, Hunter's Point ! Oh, flat and uninteresting 
landscape ! Oh, Newtown Creek ! Oh, hell ! 
oh, smell ! who can describe you, nose-absorb- 
ing, resistless ? 

I might have slept, but the newsboy, vociferous, 
importunate, entered : 

" Here you are ! All the latest magazines — Har- 
per'Sy Scribner'Sy The Century^ Lippincotfs^ 
Frank Leslie^ The Cosmopolitan, The Ladies* 
Home Journal, Puck, Judge and Life, Town 
Topics — just out." 

I hated that newsboy ardently. The dust blew in 
my face, a cinder got in my eye, the window 
shut on my thumb, the train stopped at other 
stations than mine. 

But now I know it was all for the best, for had I 
not these discomforts endured, I should not 
have written this song, and what would you 
have done then ? 

A. D. AND c. D. 



6o POEMS. 



TRIOLET. 

I've a crick in my back, 

Shall I have it to-morrow ? 
I came down such a whack, 

When I fell on my back, 
That I heard the ice crack. 

To my very great sorrow. 
I've a crick in my back, 

Shall I have it to-morrow ? 

C. D. 



POEMS. 6i 



WASTED TIME. 

Now, some people there be 

Who would argue with me 
On the pleasure of working for working's sake, 

Of the joys that you find 

When you force your mind 
New mountains to climb and new pathways to take. 

Now they learn how to cook 

From a cookery book ; 
They nurse the poor sick, or go visiting crime : 

Seven fads in a day 

Are not too much, for they 
Would do anything rather than waste their time. 

There are classes, indeed, 

Fit for anyone's need : 
To play cards, the piano, or, sometimes, the deuce ! 

To make Browning seem plain. 

To paint castles in Spain — 
But if you've no talent, why, what is the use ? 



62 POEMS. 



And a few collect things, 

Such as butterflies' wings, 
And I collect words into versatile rhyme ; 

Yet I think, on the whole, 

For the good of my soul, 
I should rather do nothing than waste my time. 

c. D. 



